France is all at sea

The drive back through France is not getting any easier. Whichever route we choose, seven hours in and the bum has gone numb, the car smells of hot fruit and smelly cheese and there is still no end in sight. And worse, the Peripherique around Paris has yet to be tackled. Still, despite triggering a speeding camera flash and smiling as the nice gendarmerie took our photos as we flashed by at 90 mph (perhaps they want our pictures for their album?)we were feeling a little smug as we ground to a halt at Calais passport control. Two hours early. Result! Earlier ferry if we're lucky.

Mais non!

Sea France are on strike and have been for three days. Regretting the decision not to watch or read the news whilst away we are told that there is no hope, no solution and to wait for further instructions. Two hours later and I am suprised how chirpy everyone is. That's the English for you. Bus loads of grannies, kids and foreign sports fixture enthusiasts milling around on the tarmac. It's beginning to resemble a refugee camp. By now we are quite overcome by the smell of the cheese which has been lost under a mountain of furniture in the back of the car.

'Quick, you can go, zee new tickets for P&O are ready. Allez vite!' The passport control man suddenly barks through the window.

Hurrah, but go where, how?

We storm en mass for the barrier, as the gate slids open. Like the first day at the Harrods sale all recent comaraderie is forgotten, as men, women and small children polish off a healthy sprint, heading for the ticket office. Paul is overtaken by a grannie who skids to a halt near the back of the queue, barely raising a sweat. Back of the queue? Why a queue, we were first off the starting blocks? Oh, of course, silly me this is the queue still waiting from the previous boat.

'Excuse me, but will we get on the next boat with P&O?' I am still polite at this moment as I ask a port attendant.
'No, the train'.
I wonder if she has overlooked a small point.
'But we are in the car'.
'Eurotunnel madame.'
'Of course, I knew that really.'
'Will we get the next one?'
'I don't know, maybe tomorrow.'
'WHAT!'
She walks away, which was wise for her own safety. I'm a woman of a certain age who has been deprived of sleep, smells of cheese and can't remember where she left her hairbrush. It could get messy.

Fifty minutes and 160 Euros later we are back at passport control. I gave up waiting for a voucher and grabbed one of the last tickets on the next P&O sailing.

'I've been here before.' I can't help hissing at the border guard checking the passport.
'Well, that's nice.' she smiles back. 'Have a nice day' she adds a little too sarcastically for my own liking.

The inside of the lounge on board the ship already looks like a pub lock in. P&O may be running tonight God bless them, but boy could they do with a makeover. I haven't seen anything this shabby since taking the Greek island boats back in the late 1970's. I check the bar for signs of goats.

Centre stage a group of fathers hold court; well hold anything really in their attempt to stay upright. Obviously returning from a sports fixture they are so drunk that one has just fallen sleep on the table, mid conversation. Circling the group are their teenage sons. I wonder if their fathers sheepishly promised their wives that this trip was not a 'rights of passage' and no they wouldn't allow a drop of lager to pass their boy's lips. They would be safe with them. Boy has that badly misfired. Still, they are having a laugh. I only hope they have a chauffeur, coz they can't stand let alone drive.

In the corner a small boy dressed in a plastic Viking helmet with wings was playing the slot machines whilst behind me an Eastern European woman was in tears and screaming at her husband, whilst holding her child upside down. Had she forgotten which end was up?

To the side of me seven large and squat Indians perched on the edge of their chairs. Their mothers had certainly fed them a diet of ghee when they were
younger. Their suits very shiny, their manner intense. they were certainly setting up a new chain of retirement homes. It was a done deal.

A woman straight out of an Amish village in America ignored the whole thing and played Solitaire on a table by herself, her long straggly hair obscuring her face. Well she certainly didn't have my hairbrush. Next time I looked round she had started a poker table and the table had spread to at least ten. Appearances are very deceptive.

Somewhere over the tannoy the emergency instructions droned on but frankly, short of a re-enactment of Titanic, we couldn't have cared less.

A last backward glance at the Sea France boats languishing in port and we were on our way.

I know I said I'd never use Sea France ever again, but hey, the boats are cruise liners by comparison to P&O ferries and last time we travelled on Norfolk line the boat caught fire.

We'll see...